Page 13 of Dark King Daddy

That’s when I saw the ceiling.

The plaster above the north wall had been discolored when I came up. Now it was bulging. A slow, visible deformation — the lath behind the plaster absorbing water, swelling, losing cohesion.

The bulge was growing.

I looked at the two laborers, who had returned and were standing in the gallery entrance.

“Der’mo!” I cursed in Russian, and then said, “Out. Everyone out. Now.”

“Ksenia, we almost have the doors — “

“Leave them. Out. Luis — clear the ground floor beneath this section. Move anyone underneath the north wall.”

Luis heard me from the stairwell. I heard his boots change direction, heading down instead of up.

I backed toward the stairs. The plaster made a sound — a low, fibrous groan, the lath separating from the joists above. The bulge deepened. A piece of plaster the size of a dinner plate dropped from the edge and hit the water with a flat splash.

“Move,” I said, and the laborers moved.

We cleared the gallery. We cleared the ground floor beneath.

The ceiling came down at eight-thirty-one. A section roughly six feet by eight, plaster and lath and old iron pipe fragments, hitting the chestnut floor with a sound that filled the building. Dust billowed through the stairwell and out the ground-floor entrance. Water sprayed upward from the broken pipe section, then slowed to a trickle as the last of the standing drain emptied.

Nobody was hurt, thank god.

Luis looked at me. His face was grey with plaster dust. “You saw that coming.”

“The bulge was visible. The lath was saturated.”

“You saw it and you got us out.”

“That’s the job, Luis.”

He shook his head. He didn’t argue. He went to check the pipe fragments and assess what could be salvaged.

I stood in the gallery entrance, ankle-deep in water and opened the calendar on my phone. I moved the inspector’s walk-through to the west wing. I rescheduled the east wing electrical test. I sent a message to the salvage supplier asking about replacement lath. I ordered a wet-vac rental from the equipment yard on Van Brunt Street.

Why was nothing ever easy?

The front door opened behind me. Zoe Kaplan came through it carrying two large coffees and a paper bag. She took three steps inside, stopped, and surveyed the scene — the water, the dust, the hole in the ceiling, me standing in the middle of it with my phone in one hand and my boots soaked through.

She looked at me for a long moment.

“I love this look for you” she said. “Ankle-deep in water, calmly scheduling things? It’s very on-brand.”

“Good morning, Zoe.”

“I brought you a coffee. It’s going to be cold by the time you’re done with whatever this is.”

“I’m done.”

“You’re standing in a puddle.”

I looked down. She was right. I took the coffee she offered, and drank. It was hot and strong.

She held out the bag. “Eat something.”

“I’ll eat in the site office.”